


Until you pull too hard

by tinygreyghost



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Game(s), Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinygreyghost/pseuds/tinygreyghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink Meme Prompt: http:dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14591.html</p><p>Pre-game M!Lavellan is at some point kidnapped by a gross, kinky, elf-fetishist noble and is raped and thoroughly humiliated. </p><p>This is not that fill. This is twelve years after that, when the nobleman comes to Skyhold to ally with the Inquisitor.  Please be warned that this references explicit past child sexual abuse and contains on-screen dubious/non consensual acts, and lots of stress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For a moment, he has to wonder if this is truly happening or whether he’s experiencing some form of unnaturally solid nightmare. Lavellan finds he can’t breathe, and that even in the full glare of Skyhold’s enchanted summer sunshine he’s cold as death. 

“Inquisitor? Are you unwell?” Josephine’s voice is gently solicitous but Lavellan can’t take his eyes from the man’s face. 

This _is_ happening, he thinks. Standing before him, one eyebrow raised in polite query as he waits for Lavellan to greet him, is the human man that hurt him. 

Over the years since, Lavellan has tried to convince himself that the human man didn’t truly exist, that it had all been some terrible fever-dream. His clan never spoke of the incident afterwards and, once the bruises had faded, Lavellan didn’t have proof that it had. 

“Lord Inquisitor?” says Cassandra. She lays her hand on his shoulder, and the physical contact is slight and well meant, but Lavellan jerks away from it instinctively. It’s shock enough to snap him back to himself. 

He draws breath and summons a smile. “Forgive me,” he says. “The journey from the Hissing Wastes has been long and arduous.” He turns the smile on the human man, and he feels so oddly removed from the bad memories that he’s able to be the Inquisitor and not that terrified elven child from twelve years ago. 

“This is Lord Vallenberg, Inquisitor,” says Josephine. “He governs lands to the south of Crestwood. He wishes to offer the Inquisition his friendship and support.”

Lord Vallenberg inclines his head graciously and says, “It’s good work you’re doing, Lord Inquisitor. I would be honoured to be a part of it.” 

He hasn’t changed all that much. There is grey in the hair at his temples now and his chest is broader, his body thicker all over. Lavellan’s gaze catches on the gold griffon sigil clasp at Lord Vallenberg’s throat; he remembers that too. Griffons still sometimes chase him in his dreams, and when they catch him, they tear at his flesh, rip him in two. They hurt him from the inside out. 

“I thought we could dine together tonight to celebrate your liberation of the Wardens stronghold in the Free Marches, “ says Josephine. 

“And we can discuss what contributions I can make to your cause,” says Lord Vallenberg. 

He’s smiling at Lavellan. 

Lord Vallenberg knows. Lord Vallenberg remembers him too.

Lavellan fights back a greasy swell of nausea. He hangs on to his smile. “Certainly. I look forward to it,” he says. 

“I believe the Iron Bull also had something he wished to discuss with you, Inquisitor,” says Cassandra. Her tone is serious, but the slightest of smiles sharpens her lips as she speaks. Her dark eyes glitter.

Lavellan thinks he might vomit. His own smile feels like it must be grisly, skull-like.

“Yes,” says Lavellan. “Yes, I’m sure he has. If you’ll all excuse me, I’ve been away for some weeks now and there’s a lot for me to catch up on.”

He turns and leaves, and has to force himself not to run.

 

He goes to Cullen, not Bull.

“It’s all good news from the Emerald Graves. Since you cleared out the manor house and surrounding forests, the reports of Venatori or Red Templars in the area have all but stopped.” Cullen straightens up and, sticking his hands on his hips, he surveys the map spread before them on the table with an air of distinct satisfaction. 

“And to the north, in the Storm Coast, have any Red Templars returned to the lyrium mines?” says Lavellan. 

Mindlessly, he raises his glass to his lips once more, but he’s already emptied it. The black cherry wine is sharp like bile in his throat and sour in his belly. 

The shade Cullen’s quarters provides feels like a hiding place and he’s grateful for it. Sunshine pours in through a hole in the roof, but Lavellan has tucked himself safely over the other side from it. 

He sets his glass down with deliberate care, conscious that when he poured the wine his hands were shaking.

When Cullen doesn’t answer the question, Lavellan looks up and realises he’s being studied. Cullen’s expression is concerned and his tawny eyes are narrowed in thought. 

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he says. “You look terrible.”

Lavellan smiles colourlessly. “You should be careful not to say something like that to Dorian, you know. You might just do him some serious harm.” 

It’s a weak attempt to distract Cullen, and Lavellan didn’t really think it would work, so he’s unsurprised when Cullen simply continues watching him. 

“The Hissing Wastes,” Lavellan tries. “The air there doesn’t agree with me, or with the others for that matter. You should see Sera, she came back grey as the undead. And Blackwall’s beard, he’ll be combing sand from it for weeks.”

“Are you sure it’s nothing else? You know I’ll help if I can.” 

Lavellan meets his gaze and he thinks Cullen looks sincere. However, in that moment, that old gut feeling - half paranoia, half survival instinct, and common to all Dalish - chooses to make its presence known and remind Lavellan that Cullen is human.

Cullen is a human templar. 

Lavellan is a Dalish apostate mage. 

And Lord Vallenberg is a human lord. 

Even as a traumatised child, Lavellan understood why his clan raised no complaint against Lord Vallenberg. They were elves: powerless, worthless, not to be trusted. And even were it to be believed, what real harm had been done? A single elven child had been used for sport by a lord for a couple of weeks, and then returned, mostly undamaged, to his people, along with a small payment for the trouble that even Lavellan’s keeper deemed ‘generous’. 

Furthermore, Lavellan should have known better than to go roaming the meadows of Lord Vallenberg’s estate all alone in the first place. Whatever wrongs Lord Vallenberg might have done him, Lavellan arguably went looking for them.

And it was _such_ a long time ago. Lavellan is someone else now. He is someone respected and influential; he has no relation to the fifteen year old victim he was back then. Better the past stay buried.

Cullen crosses the room, sunlight casting him in brilliant gold for a brief instant before he passes back into shadow, and comes to Lavellan. 

“Mahanon, tell me, what’s wrong?”

His tone is grave. This is Cullen, who has fought by Lavellan’s side, who carried him through the snow after Haven fell, who has leaned against Lavellan’s shoulder and been leaned against in turn as they drunkenly stumble back to their beds after one drink too many.

But this is also the same human templar that Lavellan was too wary to be left alone with in the first few months of knowing him, in case he should denounce Lavellan as a fraud and a knife-ear and toss him back into the prisons.

Lavellan draws breath, tries to form Lord Vallenberg’s name, and can’t. _Don’t take the risk_ , his Dalish blood tells him.

“Nothing but the Hissing Wastes,” he tells Cullen. 

 

 

Despite the cheerful warmth of the summer’s day in Skyhold’s courtyard, the wind on the battlements is blustery and chill. Snowflakes race through the air in tiny flurries. Lavellan’s skin prickles as a particularly cruel gust hits him, snatching at his hair and clothes, and he gasps to catch his breath. He gazes out at the white mountains but doesn’t really see them.

Footsteps sound behind him and Lavellan goes tense. This is inevitable really.

“I was surprised,” says Lord Vallenberg. “First, to see that the famed inquisitor was such a familiar face, and then by your reaction. I thought for a moment there you were going to make a scene. But you’re cleverer than that, aren’t you?” 

Lavellan doesn’t answer. He wills his feet to move, but the past rushes up and swallows him, and it leaves him helpless and small.

Lord Vallenberg comes to stand by his side, and Lavellan is intimately, sickeningly conscious of his presence - the heat of his body, the same smell of his soap, the glint of the big seal ring on his finger. Lavellan keeps his eyes down while his heart threatens to beat itself black and bloody in his chest.

“After all, look at where we are,” says Lord Vallenberg. “Look at all the people you have convinced that you’re some kind of heroic figure.”

Lord Vallenberg reaches out and casually knocks a tendril of Lavellan’s hair off his cheek. He ignores Lavellan’s flinch at his touch.

“They say you’re a very powerful mage now. Inquisitor, Knight Enchanter, Vanquisher of Darkspawn. Impressive.” He tries to catch Lavellan’s gaze. “Or maybe you’ve simply warmed the right beds in the Inquisition. Is that what you are? A perfect pretty figurehead for their crusade, and a talented little cocksucker for the long nights?” 

He laughs, and he’s near enough that Lavellan feels the huff of his hot breath on his skin. Still mute and locked up with dread, he sways on his feet and concentrates on the winter-white mountains until his eyes ache and burn.

“Hmm, either way, whatever they say about you, you’ll always be my dirty little creature,” Lord Vallenberg tells him. “Sweetest little animal I ever fucked.”

Lord Vallenberg takes Lavellan’s chin and forces his face around to meet his gaze. His expression as he studies Lavellan is unsettlingly fond.

“You remember those long afternoons we spent engaged in filthy buggery, little creature?” Lord Vallenberg muses. “Maker, how sweet your exquisite little arse felt around my prick! Even to this very day, you know, I can think of that and find release. I have had plenty of elves over the years but you were by far my favourite.” 

Out of sight but close by, a pair of Skyhold soldiers passes by on patrol. They’re so close that Lavellan can hear the faint metal jingle of their armour and the stamp of their boots.

Lord Vallenberg’s hand insinuates itself between Lavellan’s legs. The shocking touch of his fingers on the seam of Lavellan’s inner thigh, possessive and insistent, drives a small choked cry from Lavellan. There’s a moment where Lavellan struggles, a reflexive ineffectual struggle against Lord Vallenberg’s greater bulk, and then Lord Vallenberg squeezes Lavellan’s thigh meaningfully, and he leans in close, his mouth to Lavellan’s ear.

“Call out then,” Lord Vallenberg hisses. “Call your guards. Or strike me down with your own magic. But think-“ 

He presses Lavellan’s now unresisting body to the rocky battlements with his own. He is hard against Lavellan’s leg. Lavellan knows better than to attempt squirming away. 

“You know how they’ll look at you, once they know that their glorious Inquisitor is just another knife-ear whore. Imagine the look on their faces. Picture it clearly in your mind. Now think: would you like me to tell them what I did to you, little animal?” 

When Lavellan doesn’t answer, Lord Vallenberg grinds himself pointedly against Lavellan’s thigh, eyebrow raised to emphasise he’s waiting.

The soldiers pass by, and Lavellan holds his breath until the sound of them begins to recede.

“No.” Lavellan wets his lips. His voice is little more than a whisper. It’s years since he heard himself sound so young and so frail. “Don’t tell them,” he says. “Please.”

Lord Vallenberg traces the curve of Lavellan’s mouth, then lets the tip of his finger come to rest on the fullness of Lavellan’s lower lip. There is unmistakeable appetite in his touch. Lavellan holds very _very_ still, and, after a moment, Lord Vallenberg smiles, pleased and patronising. 

“That’s my good little animal,” he says. He keeps Lavellan trapped against the battlements for a long while longer, and devours his face with his gaze. “Andraste,” he murmurs, more to himself than Lavellan. “I would like to have you on your knees for me right here.” 

He kisses Lavellan brutally then, bruising his lips under his own, and it’s more like violation than true passion. He forces his tongue between Lavellan’s lips, into his mouth, and his big hands on Lavellan’s face ensures Lavellan’s mouth stays tilted up to his at a painful angle.

And then, all at once, Lord Vallenberg lets him go. He steps away from Lavellan and straightens his cuffs. Apart from the dark look in his eye and his heavier breathing, he looks staid and unruffled. 

“Lady Montileyet has invited me to dinner,” he says. “I don’t wish to be late. Don’t worry though, I’ll find you later, creature.”

After Lord Vallenberg departs Lavellan stays hunched against the battlements. He very much wants Iron Bull. He wants to be with Iron Bull, or with any of his friends. 

He starts towards the steps, then stops. 

_It’s a shameful story he’ll have to tell,_ he thinks to himself. And it will be disappointing for the people who believe in him. 

All this time, he’s tried to be more than what so many humans expect an elf to be. He's tried hard to show them that elves are every bit as strong and capable as humans. 

And now they'll see he's as bad as the worst stereotype they have of his race: another elf victimised by a human. 

Even if one could argue he had the excuse of childhood the first time, he allowed Lord Vallenberg to touch him again just now, and he didn’t fight or protest like he should have done. He can’t explain to soldiers like Blackwall and Cassandra that he wasn’t strong enough to resist Lord Vallenberg. They’ve seen him fight dragons; they’ll never believe that he couldn’t have fought off Lord Vallenberg had he truly wanted to. 

He thinks of the faces of his friends, and the members of the Inquisition, when they learn that their leader is just another human’s plaything. He imagines having to explain to them that he’s been used and fucked and been unable to stop it. 

Dorian and Vivienne respect power, Sera despises the weakness of elves, and _Bull_ \- 

Right now, Lavellan has Bull’s love and his admiration. More than anything else, he doesn't want to risk losing it.

So, he waits alone on the battlements in the cold, until he can be sure that the red marks Lord Vallenberg’s hands left on his face have faded.


	2. Chapter 2

As usual, Josephine comes to Lavellan’s room before dinner so that they can walk to the hall together. They used to do this so that she could tell him anything he needed to know before he had chance to make a terrible faux-pas with one of the guests. Now they do it as friends and for the opportunity to catch up with each other outside of Inquisition business.

Josephine is resplendent in one of her many golden outfits and she talks animatedly even while she flicks through the many pages of her diary, writing notes for herself and ticking off to-do lists and composing messages that need to be sent. Lavellan wonders to himself how it can be that someone as well-informed as her can not know about Lord Vallenberg’s tastes.

He _knows_ that she must be unaware. Josephine is too kind a person to know what type of man Lord Vallenberg is and expect Lavellan to dine with him anyway.

It makes more sense that, so long as Lord Vallenberg restricts his predations to Dalish communities, humans never need to be involved. Humans tend to stay out of clan business, and certainly no elf would ever bring it to human attention that one of their lords is a monster.

“Tell me about Lord Vallenberg,” Lavellan asks her. He’s relieved by how normal he sounds. “Is he a very important ally?”

Josephine taps the feathered end of her quill against her chin thoughtfully, and says, “Yes, rather important. He’s very rich and he has many friends among the nobility. He could be essential in funding the reconstruction work needed for many towns in nearby lands.”

She flicks Lavellan a sidelong look, and he can see she’s hesitating.

“And?” he prompts.

She wrinkles her nose, her expression uncomfortable. Then she sighs and says, “I have never heard ill of him and this is the first time I ever met him for myself and he seems very charming, but… I know someone who was a friend to Lady Vallenberg.”

“He has a wife?” says Lavellan, incredulous.

Josephine wrinkles her nose again. “He did. She died within a few years of their marriage. My friend says that Lady Vallenberg was a _deeply_ unhappy woman.”

At Lavellan’s frown, Josephine rushes on, saying, “But Lady Vallenberg never named her husband as the cause of her distress, and she died a natural death. And it must be said that, during the Blight, Lord Vallenberg took in many that had no shelter, both human and Dalish.”

Lavellan smiles to cover his grimace. “He’s a friend to the Dalish then? So he has no complaint about the Inquisitor being an elf?”

He holds the door to the hall open for Josephine, but she gives him an odd look before she passes through. “If I thought he had a problem with an elven Inquisitor, Mahanon, then rest assured _I_ would have a problem with him.” She flashes him a bright grin and links her arm through his. “But forget about him. This is a night for celebrating!”

The hall is dazzlingly lit by flaming braziers, and is full of people and noise and the many delicious fragrances of dinner. Several long banquet tables, with few seats left empty, take up the majority of the hall's space, and are attended to by serving staff milling about busily.

As Lavellan enters, the hall erupts into wild cheering and clapping. The sheer volume of it, not to mention that everyone’s gaze has turned to him, is nearly enough to make him back up a step. His hands fidget at his sides, then Lavellan settles on making a loose gesture, half wave and half salute to thank them for their welcome. He's grateful to have Josephine there to shepherd him to his place.

To his utter dismay though, he realises the empty seat to which Josephine is guiding him is beside Lord Vallenberg. Lavellan should have expected it; Lord Vallenberg is an honoured guest after all and Lavellan is supposed to be winning him over for the Inquisition. But he doesn’t know how he can make it through an entire meal so close to Lord Vallenberg, in front of everyone. The slightest slip in his behaviour with Lord Vallenberg, and the entire hall will see Lavellan for what he is.

He falters, searching for a reason that will allow him to sit elsewhere, anywhere else, without causing a huge breach in etiquette, but Lord Vallenberg rises smoothly and pulls Lavellan’s chair out for him. When Lavellan still hesitates, Josephine flashes him a slightly confused smile, and he has no choice but to take his seat.

The noise of the hall blurs into a roaring in his ears. Candlelight flickers unevenly, burning too brightly in the places it reaches and leaving too many black shadows everywhere else. His chest tightens. Panic is beginning to take hold, and he instinctively searches the hall until he finds The Iron Bull.

Bull is seated at another table, with Dorian, Varric, Sera and some of his Chargers, and Bull is looking directly back at him. Meeting his eyes, Bull grins, though even at this distance Lavellan can see the question in his look: never before has Lavellan been back at Skyhold for so long without finding Bull.

Lavellan tries to maintain his composure, fervently praying to Dirthamen to give him strength not to signal his distress to Bull, but all he wants is to be able to press himself to Bull’s side and hide from the world.

“There’s much I can do for the Inquisition. I hope this is the start of a very long friendship,” says Lord Vallenberg, leaning in just a little unnecessarily close to be heard over the general buzz of conversation.

Lavellan looks away from Bull sharply. His cheeks heat and he looks down at his plate, which is steadily being filled with slices of duck and steamed green vegetables by a sweet-faced serving girl at his elbow.

“I hope so too,” he says, addressing a piece of broccoli on his plate rather than look up at Lord Vallenberg.

He spears the broccoli on his fork, flips it over then abandons it. He fumbles for his napkin to dry the sudden sweat on his palms, and to hide the shake in his hands.

Lord Vallenberg sighs in displeasure. He picks up a nearby flagon and pours wine into Lavellan’s goblet, then passes it to him. “Try to smile, Lord Inquisitor,” he says in an undertone, “or people will start to think there’s something wrong. You don’t want to worry your friends, do you?”

Lavellan focuses on steadying his breathing, before he reluctantly accepts the glass and takes a deep drink. Once he’s fortified by the shuddering warmth of alcohol, he sets the glass down, picks up his knife and fork and begins cutting his food.

Apparently satisfied with Lavellan’s compliance, Lord Vallenberg resumes his own meal. In a more conversational tone, he says, “I believe the Divine Victoria served in the Inquisition for a time. It must be strange to once have been able to give her orders, and now to see her so elevated.”

“It doesn’t necessarily follow that those who serve the Inquisition serve me,” says Lavellan. He keeps his voice neutral and his gaze on his plate. He slices the duck into increasingly small pieces, concentrating on each precise stroke of his knife.

Cassandra, whose attention was caught by the mention of Leliana, has been watching the exchange from the other side of the table.

“Though it’s true the Inquisitor guides our efforts, I think perhaps we are all servants of Andraste and the Maker in this,” Cassandra says. Lavellan might not share her sentiments, but he’s obliged to her for attempting to take some of the attention from him.

Lord Vallenberg turns to her with silky deference. “You are a famed Seeker of the Truth, Lady Pentaghast. Naturally you perceive the hand of Andraste in events, as do I. But what of the Dalish pantheon, Inquisitor? Do you believe they involve themselves in the Inquisition or have they stood aside?”

Before Lavellan can begin to flounder for a response, Josephine tsks playfully, her generous mouth curving into a smile, and says, “Oh, Lord Vallenberg, do you really mean to discuss religion at the banquet table? I can’t allow it!”

Lord Vallenberg laughs urbanely. “Forgive me, Lady Montilyet, for such a breach in decorum. I suppose I merely was curious how close to his elven roots our Inquisitor was. I have heard tales of a diverse companionship that stood against the Darkspawn Magister. Human, dwarf, Templar and enchanter, Tevinter Mage and Qunari mercenary. Even, I see, another elf.”

Lavellan at once follows the direction of Lord Vallenberg’s gaze and realises he’s singled out Sera, who’s loudly, cheerfully calling bullshit on one of Varric’s stories. Coldness settles in Lavellan’s stomach and the blade of his knife scrapes jarringly against his plate.

“No. Sera is a city elf,” he says. He’s in such a rush to get the words out he thinks he might bite his tongue.

“She was raised by humans,” Cassandra adds. She looks over in Sera’s direction, just in time to see her all but grappling with Varric for the flagon of wine he’s confiscated from her. The corner of her mouth lifts in a wry smile. “I’m not actually sure she believes she counts as elven.”

"I was telling the Inquisitor earlier, Lord Vallenberg," says Josephine, " how you aided elves during the Blight, how you offered them shelter and supplies when many others turned them away."

Cassandra looks interested and impressed, and Lord Vallenberg inclines his head modestly.

"I have always felt for the plight of the Dalish. Many consider them little more than beasts." He raises his glass to Lavellan and continues, "Of course, few will be able to preserve their bigotry when they see the example of such strength and virtue that is set by our Inquisitor.”

An Orlesian nobleman on Cassandra’s other side starts clapping, gushingly telling Lord Vallenberg how right he is, how much he agrees. Josephine and Cassandra share a sly look; both of them well used to, and entertained by, what they see as another in a long line of attempts to flatter the famed Inquisitor.

Lavellan takes another desperate drink of wine. Beneath the table, Lord Vallenberg puts his hand on Lavellan’s thigh and lets it rest there.

Of course it's not mercy Lord Vallenberg is showing when he allows the topic of discussion to drift. He allows Lavellan to drop entirely from the conversation, though his hand remains on him, both possessive and comfortable, sometimes simply resting there and other times idly petting him.  
Lord Vallenberg is confident he has made his point and can move on to other matters, such as ingratiating himself with Josephine and Cassandra.

Lavellan eats despite the food being stodgy in his mouth and tasteless when he swallows. He drinks to find solace in the steady numbing of his senses. He doesn’t dare look in Bull’s direction again, or at Lord Vallenberg.

The evening passes in a nightmarish haze. After the meal has been eaten, people leave their seats to mingle and chat, and Lavellan has no intention of trying to move so long as Lord Vallenberg has his hand on him, until he sees Cole heading in Bull’s direction.

Lavellan’s on his feet in an instant, and he moves with a smooth elven grace and speed that disguise the fact his whole body is trembling. He’s holding his breath even as he’s rushing to avert the disaster about to happen.

He passes through the crowds, smiling and politely brushing off numerous invitations to join conversation, and determinedly makes his way to Cole, catching him just before he can make it to Bull.

He clutches Cole’s arm, and he’s dimly aware that his fingers are digging into Cole’s flesh like claws, but he can’t think about that.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he hisses at Cole. His voice is a venomous whisper, nastier than he means it to be.

Cole looks at him, wide-eyed and confused by the pain as he always is. “But it hurts,” he says plaintively.

Lavellan doesn’t care; he grips Cole’s arm more tightly, and says, “Don’t say anything. Not to anyone. You understand me?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bull approaching. Terror chokes him, and Lavellan can’t manage more words, he can only gaze at Cole and will him to stay silent.

“This looks interesting,” says Bull, the warmth in his voice not quite concealing a significant undertone. “What’s going on?”

Not only Bull is looking now, Lavellan realises. Varric and Sera are paying attention too.

With an effort that feels like he’s breaking bones, he unknits his fingers from Cole’s arm. He squashes his panic down deep and turns a smile on Bull. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t have a lie to tell.

Cole saves him.

“Nothing really,” says Cole, with disarming sincerity. “Lavellan didn’t want me to tell you about a dream he had about you, The Iron Bull.”

Varric snorts, and Sera makes a crude noise, and Lavellan feels weak with relief. A heated, speculative gleam enters Bull’s eye as he looks at Lavellan.

“Really?” he says. “Well that sounds like something I might want to hear about.” He leans in closer to Lavellan and, in a voice that’s thick with desire, says, “But I think I’d enjoy it more hearing you tell it, boss.”

For a moment, gazing back at his face, Lavellan desperately wants to tell Bull to take him away from here. Bull would do it gladly. He could let Bull take him out of here and beg him not to ask any questions, and Bull might even let him get away with it, for a while.

It’s a fierce internal battle that Lavellan only wins because he remembers Lord Vallenberg could well be watching, and the idea of Lord Vallenberg knowing about Bull turns Lavellan’s stomach.

Although they may express it through unconventional and somewhat deviant play, what they have between them is blindingly pure. No templar’s love, chaste as it may be, could be as powerful as how Lavellan loves Bull.

And if Lord Vallenberg knows, it will be irrevocably tainted.

“Maybe later,” Lavellan says. His lets his gaze flicker around the hall meaningfully, and manages a hint of a smirk, adding, “In a not so public place.”

From his lazily teasing demeanour, nobody would be able to tell how hard Lavellan’s heart is beating.

Nobody except Bull.

When Lavellan tries to step back, Bull moves with him. He catches Lavellan’s wrist in his big hand to keep him from disappearing into the throng.

“Why is this the first time I’m seeing you since you got back?” says Bull.

It’s no accident that Bull’s grip on him puts Bull’s fingers right on the distressed thrum of his pulse, and Lavellan twists and tugs to escape. Bull's tone might be casual but his eye searches Lavellan’s face intently, reading more than Lavellan wants him to see.

“I’ve been busy, that’s all,” says Lavellan. He scrabbles lightly at Bull’s hand, trying to pry his wrist free, all the while smiling and looking unconcerned and praying that Lord Vallenberg is not watching.

Bull doesn’t let him go. He doesn’t hold him very tightly but he doesn’t have to: Lavellan’s got more hope of uprooting a tree than of physically forcing Bull to do anything.

“Everything okay?” says Bull. Even though he’s not pushing hard, Lavellan is growing frantic.

“Everything’s fine,” Lavellan babbles. He glances around nervously, his smile becoming fixed. “Come on, Bull, let go of me.”

Lavellan is trying to retreat, but Bull is quietly unshakeable. “You were really knocking the wine back, s’not like you. Something’s wrong.” There’s no urgency in Bull’s tone, he sounds utterly relaxed.

Lavellan can’t manage the same trick.

“Please, let go of me!” he insists, keeping his voice down as low as he can so as not to draw attention.

He’s leaving scratch marks on Bull’s hand now: violent red lines where he’s tried to peel Bull’s fingers off him. He doesn’t stop moving backwards but Bull just keeps coming like the sea’s tide. A cold sweat is gathering on the back of Lavellan’s neck. His heart is beating in his throat and the glare of the candlelight makes his vision swim.

“Kadan, tell me what’s wrong,” says Bull, the first note of firmness entering his voice.

Lavellan uses all his weight to try to pull free from Bull’s grip, but it’s useless. Nearly sobbing in frustration, he looks around the hall again, and he sees Lord Vallenberg watching them both.

He has no choice.

“Katoh!”

The word’s only just left his lips before Bull releases him, and Lavellan staggers backwards clumsily.

For an instant the expression on Bull’s face is one of barely concealed hurt and Lavellan feels a little stunned to realise how deeply he’s wounded him. He didn’t think he’d be capable of it. He thought nothing would ever touch Bull as deeply as his decision to turn on the Qun. But he’s done it.

He hates himself for it. It feels like he’s just given up hope. He's done something irrevocable.

Bull regains his easy-going grin and raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay then, boss,” he says. "I'll let you get on with things.”

Bull goes back to his table, and Lavellan simply watches him go. He wants to call after him but somehow can’t bring himself to. The horror of what’s happening is too great. He’s here in Skyhold, surrounded by friends and followers, but he’s fairly sure he’s alone now. He’s allowed Lord Vallenberg to steal him away just as he did all those years ago. It’s all too late. All there is left is returning to his seat beside Lord Vallenberg


	3. Chapter 3

Lavellan wakes early next morning, sick and miserable. His stomach heaves until it’s emptied out all of the alcohol and food from the night before. Afterwards, shivering from the exertion and feeling no better for it, he sits on the end of his bed and tries to gather the strength to dress and wash and comb his hair. 

It’s cold in his room, cold and quiet. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there when there’s a knock on his door, and Dorian’s voice calls out, “Inquisitor, are you decent?”

Lavellan starts. He gathers the voluminous folds of his silken dressing gown to himself, rakes both hands through his long dark hair to sweep it back from his face in some semblance of tidiness.

“You can come up,” he says. 

Dorian races up the stairs – and stops short at the sight of him. 

“Pray tell, exactly how many hedges were you dragged backwards through?”

He’s teasing, of course, but it gives Lavellan the impetus to rise and cross to his dressing mirror. He’s horrified at the sight of himself: he looks like something brought in from the wild and dressed up in a nobleman’s robe for a joke. 

His stomach turns over again and he clenches his jaw against the rise of nausea. 

“Too much wine,” says Lavellan. “ _You_ may be far too pretty for hangovers to dare meddle with, but I am not.”

Dorian leans against the post at the top of the stairs and folds his arms across his chest. He raises one impeccably groomed eyebrow, and says, “I thought you might want to talk about it.”

Lavellan ducks his head, allowing his hair to fall forward and hide his face from Dorian. “Talk about what?” he says, while he busies himself with retrieving his clothes from the wardrobe.

“About Bull,” Dorian says with elaborate patience.

“What did he say?” 

“Nothing,” says Dorian. “That’s rather the point.” He flings himself down in a chair dramatically and fixes Lavellan with a stern look. “Have you ever tried enjoying a game of Wicked Grace when one member of the party seems to have wandered in from their best friend’s funeral? Awful.” 

He picks up a looted ruby amulet left on Lavellan’s desk and examines it with idle curiosity for a moment before tossing it aside once more. 

He raises his eyebrow at Lavellan again. “Well?” he prompts impatiently when Lavellan just stares at him. 

For a heartbeat, Lavellan toys with the idea of asking Dorian how common it was for magisters to bed their elven slaves back in Tevinter. However, he doesn’t wish to needle Dorian, and he thinks he already knows the answer. 

He wonders if it’s ever occurred to Dorian to realise that Lavellan is not all that different from the slaves he must once have had. Dorian is a good man and a dear friend, but he doesn’t quite see the issue of slavery as Lavellan does. And perhaps, when it comes down to it, he won’t see Lord Vallenberg as being all that different from any other magister.

Even as Lavellan’s thinking it, Dorian rises from the chair and comes to stand before him. He drops the flamboyant façade, and studies Lavellan with genuine concern and affection. 

“Whatever has happened, however terrible you think it is, I’m sure it can be fixed,” he says gently. “The big idiot is absolutely besotted with you, there is nothing in this world that can break you two apart.”

They’re nice words. Lavellan appreciates the intent behind them.

“Thank you, my friend,” Lavellan says. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right, but it’s nice that you’re gracious enough to acknowledge it,” says Dorian. “And as for that ghastly game of Wicked Grace last night, you can make it up to me by joining us for a hand tonight.”

Lavellan suppresses his immediate instinct to refuse; he knows Dorian too well to think arguing will serve any purpose. “Perhaps,” he says instead. “If I can finish these reports at an early enough hour.” 

Dorian eyes him, unconvinced, then sighs very deeply and throws his hands up in disgust. “Maker, I am surrounded by fools and liars. And you, my dear Lavellan, are both.” He swipes the pad of his thumb across Lavellan’s cheekbone affectionately, then heads down the stairs, calling behind him, “Probably best you don’t inflict your presence on us. You’d make Corypheus look the picture of healthy good looks.”

 

Lavellan stays in his room until the brightest hours of the afternoon. When he hears the knock at his door, he knows what to expect. He hasn’t dressed, nor has he tidied his hair. Doing either would feel a sham. There have been enough Inquisition reports to read through to keep his mind occupied while he waited, and he hasn’t had the stomach to eat. It would be no way to go into battle, but that’s okay, because Lavellan’s already surrendered.

There’s the knock at the door, and then one of his guards appears at the top of the stairs. “Lord Vallenberg requests an audience with you, ser. Shall I tell him to wait?”

Lavellan swallows hard. He carefully sets aside the scroll he’s reading. He lays his palms flat against the desktop to steady his hands. 

“No. I’ll see him now. Please send him in.”

He keeps his gaze on the polished wooden surface of his desk while he listens to the creak of Lord Vallenberg’s leather boots on the stairs. He orders his breathing and ignores the burn of shame in his cheeks. 

He doesn’t look up until Lord Vallenberg is at his side, and even then he only turns his eyes to Lord Vallenberg’s hand on his shoulder. Lord Vallenberg strokes the fabric of his dressing gown, feeling out the shape of Lavellan’s shoulder beneath it.

“Antivan silk,” Lord Vallenberg remarks. “Such finery for such a grubby little beast.” It’s not said as an insult, simply as an observation. 

Lavellan’s heart pounds dully in his ears. He doesn’t resist when Lord Vallenberg’s fingers slip beneath the edge of his robe and, in one rough move, tugs the gown down to expose his whole neck and shoulder. 

He fights the urge to hunch over, keeps his gaze submissively lowered. 

“After we-“ He can’t say the words. He has to press his numb lips together a moment before he can continue. “After this, will you leave?”

He tries not to shy away as Lord Vallenberg leans down and presses a kiss – his mouth open and hot - to his bare shoulder, then another to the vulnerable curve of his neck. He concentrates on Lord Vallenberg’s griffon sigil glinting in the sunlight. 

“What?” says Lord Vallenberg. “You’d have me rush away when there is so much Inquisition business to discuss?” His tone is one of mild rebuke. 

He places a kiss on Lavellan’s jaw, then, smoothing his dark hair out of the way with covetous fingers, Lord Vallenberg closes his lips around the pointed tip of Lavellan’s ear and sucks. 

Lavellan’s breath hitches in an odd, appalled little noise. Sheer revulsion makes him shudder.

After a long moment, Lord Vallenberg releases him. He looks Lavellan in the eyes meaningfully and says, “Do _you_ want to explain to Lady Montilyet why I had to leave in such a hurry?”

Again, Lord Vallenberg studies him with that awful, devouring intensity and Lavellan, terrified into dreadful pliancy, stares back at him. Lord Vallenberg takes hold of his chin and tilts Lavellan’s face up into the light, to better examine him.

“You really have grown into the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen. I knew you would. You were the sweetest morsel as a child.”

He takes hold of Lavellan under the arm and hauls him easily out of the chair. He’s a head taller than Lavellan and his grip on him forces Lavellan up onto his toes.

“You know,” Lord Vallenberg says, as he walks Lavellan to the bed, “your people let me have you for less than the price of a carthorse. I had my way again and again with your pretty mouth and virgin arsehole, and all I had to give them to get them to go away was fifteen gold pieces.” 

Another strange, distressed noise, all the protest and expression of horror Lavellan can make, escapes him 

“Did you know that?” Lord Vallenberg asks again. He looks deep into Lavellan’s eyes, like he wants to see how much it hurts. He smiles at whatever he finds. 

“Still,” he continues, “had I known what a great beauty you'd become, I might have paid them thirty and kept you.” He pauses, considering, then touches the vallaslin on Lavellan’s forehead. “Might have avoided them putting this barbaric scrawl on your pretty face.”

He forces Lavellan down onto the bed, and folds him into position on his forearms and knees. Lavellan’s fingers curl into claws around the coverlet and he tries to remember to breathe. 

_It’s going to hurt_. He remembers that very distinctly. _It will go on for ages and it will hurt._

Like he’s thinking it too, Lord Vallenberg says, “Will you scream like you used to when I’m inside you, little animal? I remember those glorious noises you made for me. Do I need to gag you?” He puts his mouth against Lavellan’s ear, a mockery of a tender whisper. “You don’t want all of Skyhold to hear what we’re doing, do you? You don’t want them to know the Inquisitor’s such a well-used little fuckbeast, do you?”

Tears glaze Lavellan’s vision as he registers the horribly familiar jingle of Lord Vallenberg’s belt being undone. Aside from that little sound, it’s still so quiet in his room. Skyhold is so far away, and Lavellan is alone in this room with Lord Vallenberg. 

He’s panting for breath now, not getting enough air in and it makes his head swim. He bites down on his lip, _hard_ , to seal in a frantic cry, as Lord Vallenberg takes hold of his thighs and roughly spreads his legs wide. He knows he should try to be less tense, because it’s going to hurt like holy hell and Lord Vallenberg is going to rip him in half. 

“It appears that you’ve grown up with quite the wrong idea of your role in the world,” Lord Vallenberg tells him. “I think I need to remind of your place.”

Lavellan braces himself as best he can, but the coverlets are satin and slippery, and his knees slip out from beneath him. He tries to catch himself, and his fingers brush something hidden under his pillow: his shard of dragon tooth on a thin silver chain. 

He closes his hand around it and the dragon tooth bites into his skin. It’s only a pinprick but the pain is more immediate than the blunt shove of Lord Vallenberg’s flesh into his. The pain radiates throughout his body, and the more Lavellan focuses on that pain, the less afraid he is.

Until he’s not afraid at all. 

All at once, Lord Vallenberg is about as important as any of the other human enemies Lavellan has had to fight. 

The lightning bolt with which he hits Lord Vallenberg is precisely potent enough to slam him off from on top of him without doing any severe injuries. Lord Vallenberg hits Lavellan’s desk and crashes to the floor. He’s back on his feet in moments, dishevelled and red-cheeked and absolutely furious. 

“How dare you-!“

Lavellan doesn’t care about Lord Vallenberg’s outrage. He gets up, tugging his dressing gown closed and knotting it tightly about himself.

“Tell them,” he says, before Lord Vallenberg can finish his sentence. Something has come loose inside of Lavellan. He’s shaky all over. 

Lord Vallenberg seems about to approach, then apparently thinks better of it. He watches Lavellan with narrowed eyes, his chest still heaving as he tries to catch his breath. He watches Lavellan with an uncustomary circumspection as he redoes his breeches.

“You should start with the Iron Bull,” Lavellan tells him. His voice sounds strange to his own ears, quietly manic. “You know who that is? That’s the massive Qunari with only one eye. He’s my bodyguard. And he adores me.” Lavellan’s smile is just a feral baring of teeth, and he says it again, just because. “ _He adores me_. So tell him. Tell him that you raped me as a child and that you’re trying to rape me again now.”

Lord Vallenberg matches his smile with something only marginally more civilised. “And will he still adore you when he knows how soiled you are? That there can be nothing he’s done with you that I didn’t do first? Will he adore the knowledge that every clever trick you’ve done for him was taught to you by me?”

“I don’t care. I’d rather they all knew that I was once your whore than let you do it to me again.”

The door to Lavellan’s chambers bangs open. “Lavellan?” Blackwall calls. “Is everything okay? I heard a crash.” 

He comes to a halt at the top of the stairs, staring between the two of them. His eyes narrow at the sight of the room. 

Lavellan’s crazed defiance begins to slip; he knows what Blackwall is seeing: Lavellan, barely dressed, blankets rumpled on the bed, the desk a mess, and Lord Vallenberg...

“Is there a problem here?” Blackwall glances at Lord Vallenberg, then to Lavellan. 

Lavellan shakes his head quickly, but Lord Vallenberg gets there first. “A misunderstanding, is all,” he tells Blackwall. He gives Lavellan a gracious bow. “I’m flattered by your offer, Inquisitor, but I’m afraid I cannot conduct negotiations in this way. Rest assured, I remain a steadfast ally, but I think it best I return to my estate and support the Inquisition from afar. Despite this unfortunate incident, please know I bear you no ill will.”

He sketches a shallow bow in Blackwall’s direction then sweeps past him and down the stairs. 

Blackwall looks to Lavellan, and Lavellan’s stunned expression gives way to anxiety. “No, I didn’t- I _wouldn’t_ -!”

“Of course you didn’t,” Blackwall says. “Did he hurt you?”

Lavellan is going to lie. He’s going to say no, and he’s going to rebury the whole thing, because he can, because Lord Vallenberg is leaving, he’s going back to his estate far away and Lavellan can block his return, and Lord Vallenberg will never be able to touch him again. 

Won’t be able to touch Lavellan. 

But Lavellan was only one of many. 

“Lavellan, Maker’s sake, talk to me,” Blackwall urges. He moves to put his hands on Lavellan’s shoulders, but Lavellan slips past him and races down the stairs after Lord Vallenberg.


	4. Chapter 4

Lavellan hurtles down the stone staircase on bare feet, his silk dressing gown whipping around his naked legs, and his long hair in disarray. He all but falls out into the great hall, Blackwall following close behind. People turn to stare, nobles and mages and templars alike. Cullen breaks off mid-conversation with several soldiers to look over at him, his hand instantly straying to his sword. Josephine emerges from her study to see the cause of the commotion. Lavellan doesn’t stop or slow down; Lord Vallenberg is nearly at the door. 

“Lord Vallenberg!” he shouts. “Stop!”

Lavellan considers knocking him down with magic, but before he can, Cassandra steps fluidly into the doorway, right in Lord Vallenberg’s. Although her stance is not aggressive, Lord Vallenberg is wise enough not to try to sidestep her. She looks between Lord Vallenberg and Lavellan. 

“Inquisitor?” she asks. 

Lord Vallenberg turns to face Lavellan angrily. 

“I take it there’s a good reason for this?” he demands. 

“You can’t go,” Lavellan tells him. 

There is a crowd watching now. People have spilled in from the library and the chantry gardens. Lavellan is only barely aware of them. He’s so consumed by the purpose he’s being driven by that nothing else seems real. 

“What?” Lord Vallenberg scoffs, looking to the other nobles present to invite them to share his disbelief. “Do you mean to hold me prisoner here?”

“You’re going to stand judgement,” Lavellan says. 

Something ugly glitters in Lord Vallenberg’s eyes. His contemptuous smile is an open challenge. He takes half a step towards Lavellan, and disregards the subtle reaction from Cassandra, Cullen, Varric and every other armed person present.

“For what crimes, Inquisitor?” he says. “Do you care to explain what you think I’ve done?” He sounds politely surprised, head cocked, but his gaze is fixed on Lavellan and Lavellan sees the threat of pure terror to come.

Instinctively, Lavellan starts to recoil, but he catches himself, forces himself to hold his ground. His breathing is shallow, and he feels light-headed and faint. He can’t speak, he has no words.

Lord Vallenberg waits a moment, eyebrow raised, then tsks when Lavellan fails to speak. “As I thought. Fanciful nonsense. You have nothing to accuse me of.” He makes to turn away, then a thought seems to occur to him and he looks back at Lavellan, a hint of a smile appearing on his mouth. “You are ill-suited for the title you hold, you should mind it doesn’t become apparent to everyone.”

He turns to the doorway, and gestures peremptorily for Cassandra to move aside. Again, she looks to Lavellan for a command, her expression less certain. 

“No,” Lavellan says. “You know what you’re guilty of, Lord Vallenberg. I will not allow you to return to your lands and continue to-”

“To what?” Lord Vallenberg breaks in, so viciously that Lavellan once again almost backs up. “Be warned, Inquisitor, if you intend to accuse me of something, I will expect you to deliver some sort of proof for these good people.”

Nobody speaks. They’re waiting for Lavellan. And whatever Lavellan says now, everyone will hear. 

The dragon’s tooth is still in his hand, and he closes his fist around it. 

“I’m accusing you of kidnapping, imprisonment and rape.” He raises his voice to be heard over the sudden wave of gasps and shocked cries. “I’m going to send emissaries to any Dalish clan I can find has passed through your lands to discover the full extent of your crimes.”

He’s distantly aware of Blackwall’s intake of breath behind him, of Cullen and Cassandra exchanging a horror-struck look, of Josephine’s diary dropping to the stone floor in a rustle of pages. Mostly though, he’s focused on meeting Lord Vallenberg’s eyes.

For an instant, Lord Vallenberg seems frozen. He seems genuinely astonished that Lavellan has dared to accuse him in public. Lavellan considers the many years Lord Vallenberg has spent beyond reproach, and his own unkempt appearance – as wild looking an elf as any – and he almost finds the situation funny. 

Then Lord Vallenberg’s gaze singles out Josephine from the crowd. “Ambassador,” he calls. “Are you going to stand by while I am mistreated in such a grievous manner? I came here, at _your_ invitation, to offer my aid to your cause, and am met with foul slander from your inquisitor.” He all but spits the last word. “I had heard tell that he was unused to- to _civilised_ company, but this is unacceptable. I shall not rest until every good family in Ferelden-“

“Be silent!” 

Cassandra’s voice is like the crack of a whip. It jolts Cullen into action. 

“Guards,” he says, gesturing several armed soldiers forward with a flick of his finger. “Please escort Lord Vallenberg to the cells where he will await judgment. Also detain any members of his retinue and ensure they don’t leave Skyhold.” 

“You surely don’t believe this lying animal?” Lord Vallenberg cries out as the guards seize him. In vain, he struggles against them, his face growing red and his voice becoming rough. “You can’t! You think I’d touch _him_? You think I’d sully my hands on some filthy, knife-eared whore? His tongue should be slit for speaking such lies!”

Then all pretence of social polish falls away, as easily as a mask being dropped, and he makes an abortive attempt to lunge at Lavellan, hands outstretched like claws. “You foul little beast! How dare you do this to me!! I’ll fuck you ‘til you bleed! Do you hear me? ‘Til you fucking beg for my forgiveness!” 

He’s dragged from the hall by the guards, screaming all the way.

When he’s been removed, a great, fragile silence hangs in the hall. Lavellan is aware that everyone is looking at him. He’s also acutely conscious of his dishevelled appearance. He swallows, reminds himself that he is the Inquisitor and he cannot afford to look weak, not in light of what they all now know about him. His knees are wobbly and he thinks there’s a real possibility he’s going to fall, and he can’t let it happen in front of them.

Moving with as much dignity as he can muster, Lavellan turns and leaves the hall. He barely gets the door shut behind himself before a horrible frailty overtakes him. He sags towards the floor, clinging hold of the staircase to stay on his feet. There’s a thunder of voices on the other side of the door as the stunned silence breaks. Lavellan needs to get away but he can’t get up off his knees. 

The door opens again behind him, and before he can turn he’s being lifted into Bull’s massive arms, held against Bull’s warm, hard chest. Bull carries him up the stairs, and he’s so pathetically grateful to have Bull that when he tries to speak he can only manage a dry sob. He presses his face to Bull’s shoulder to hide a few disgraceful tears.


	5. Chapter 5

Bull carries him up to his room and settles him on the bed gently and carefully. Lavellan sees Bull note the rumpled blankets on the bed, sees his jaw clench dangerously, though he says nothing. This bed is theirs, and Lord Vallenberg has ruined it. 

“I’m sorry,” says Lavellan, and Bull’s eye snaps to him. There’s such violence in his gaze that Lavellan’s breath catches and he draws back reflexively. Bull makes a visible effort to loosen the tension in his jaw and he rolls his shoulders to release the thick muscles of his neck. 

“You have _nothing_ to apologise for, kadan.” His voice is a low, savage rumble. He lingers a moment, unspeaking, then says, “I’d like to stay here with you, is that okay?”

It hadn’t even occurred to Lavellan that he might go. He reaches out and catches Bull’s big hand in his. “Please stay,” he says. 

Bull nods and says, “Where do you want me to sit?”

“With me, please.” 

Bull settles on the bed beside him and Lavellan reaches out to draw him closer. Bull curls his arm around Lavellan’s back and, when Lavellan burrows into his side, he begins to stroke Lavellan’s hair, slow and soothing. 

“I’ve got you, Mahanon,” he says. “You’re safe.”

They sit like that. Lavellan feels tension in Bull’s body, where he’s fighting down some emotion in order to remain still. He’s reassured by Bull’s lack of anger or accusation. His breathing levels out, and maybe he’d grow cold wearing nothing but his dressing gown, but Bull holds him too closely to allow it.

There are occasional sounds from Skyhold as life continues, but Lavellan is spared it. He feels Bull’s chest roll as he draws in breath to speak, and he prepares for whatever is coming. 

“I need you to tell me something honestly, kadan,” says Bull. 

Lavellan’s stomach lurches and he presses his eyes shut. If Bull doesn’t believe him, there is no hope that the others will.

“Did the-“ Bull hesitates, and, despite his unease, Lavellan needs to hear his question. He’s never heard Bull sound so unsure of himself. It’s unnerving. “Did the way we are together ever upset you?”

Lavellan frowns. He tilts his face up to look at Bull. “What do you mean?”

Another huge breath moves through Bull’s chest. “I don’t want to have hurt you. When I tell you want to do, when I make you take orders, did that ever-?“

“No,” Lavellan cuts across him swiftly. “No. I’ve wanted everything you do to me, and I know I only have to say our word and it stops. It was nothing like-” 

He remembers that he screamed until he was sick with Lord Vallenberg and still he didn’t stop. Frowning at the memory, he presses himself to Bull’s chest, close enough to listen to the steady beat of Bull’s heart. 

Bull continues smoothing Lavellan’s hair but his arm tightens around him. 

Gradually, Lavellan begins to relax. He didn’t realise how small he’s been holding himself these last two days until he registers how his body is aching. He distracts himself by following the individual path of each thick white scar that crosses Bull’s skin. 

It’s restful and Lavellan loses track of how much time passes. 

“I was fifteen,” he says eventually. 

If Bull’s surprised by his decision to speak, he doesn’t show it in any way. He seems content to let Lavellan talk or not. Lavellan is grateful for the lack of pressure.

“The clan had just settled near his estate. I wanted to explore the woods, and I strayed onto Lord Vallenberg’s estate. One of Lord Vallenberg’s hunters caught me.”

He takes a deep, slow breath to steady himself. Iron Bull waits for him, doesn’t urge him to talk before he’s ready.

“Lord Vallenberg had me for a couple of weeks. He hurt me, and he did things to me. He made me do things to him.” He has to stop a second, before the press of bad memories becomes too much. “He said if I didn’t behave he’d set his dogs on my clan, or he’d let his soldiers have me. “

Bull’s hand hesitates mid-stroke. Lavellan is too afraid of what he might see to look at his face. Perhaps he’s telling Bull more than he should. It can’t be pleasant to hear about your partner’s most sordid moments. 

“I did _try_ to escape,” he says. He sounds more defensive than he meant to. “I did. But- But he kept me chained up a lot, and sometimes-” His voice cuts off into a sharp exhaled breath and his cheeks burn with old shame. As soon as he’s able, he forces himself to continue. “Sometimes, you know, _after_ , it hurt too much to even walk. I tried magic once too, but I wasn’t powerful enough, and he said if I used magic again, he’d hand me over to the templars to punish.”

He fixes his eyes on one of the larger, newer scars on Bull’s shoulder. He was there to see that one caused: a swipe of talons from Corypheus’s dragon at the Temple of Ashes. For months, the wound was red and angry, but the colour has leached from it at last and the flesh has knitted together.

He runs his fingertip backwards and forwards along the raised line of it while he speaks. 

“Eventually my keeper was able to get an audience with him, and she petitioned for my release.” Lavellan gives a small shrug. “He let me go. My clan left the area and we didn’t go back. That was it.”

He continues tracing the scar for a moment then his hand slows and stops. He steels himself and then looks up at Bull. He can’t read Bull’s expression, discerns anger maybe, and he feels his anxiety building up again. 

In bringing it all out in the open, he’s made one hell of a mess for the Inquisition. He’s accused a well-respected noble of serious crimes, and he has no proof beyond his own word. Josephine had such high hopes for the alliance too, and Lavellan has wrecked it. 

“Honestly, I’d have been happy just to have him gone from Skyhold but- There have been others, Bull,” Lavellan tells him earnestly. “I think he’s been hurting elves like me for years, and if I just let him go, he’ll carry on hurting them. I had to say something.”

“Stop,” says Bull. Now he sounds angry as well as looks it. 

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan says at once. The apology is reflexive and all encompassing. “I’m sorry, please-“

As much as Lavellan tries to cling to him, Bull has no trouble dumping Lavellan off his lap, onto the bed. Bull cups his face in his hands so Lavellan has to look at him, and Lavellan falls silent and still, barely daring to breathe.

“Stop,” Bull says again. “This is important. You have done nothing wrong. Not back then, not now. You are not at fault for anything. You have been brave and tough and so good, and I give you my word: anyone ever tries to hurt you in that way again, kadan, it will be over my dead body.”

Bull makes the promise simply, with no posturing but absolute certainty, and Lavellan believes him. 

He opens his mouth to awkwardly thank Bull, but what comes out instead is an odd, choked cry. Hiccupping sobs burst out of him and he can’t seem to hold them back. There are no tears, just the release of so much anguish and stress. They wrack his whole body, and he thinks he might fall apart completely, but Bull hauls him in close again, presses a fierce kiss to the top of his head. Lavellan squeezes his eyes shut and hides against Bull. The dry sobs keep coming until the tightness of Bull’s arms around him means he can’t draw breath enough for them. Exhaustion begins to overwhelm him and drag him towards the edge of sleep.

“It’s all right, kadan,” Bull murmurs to him. “It’s over.”

And Lavellan lets go. 

 

 

Bull wakes Lavellan much later with a plate of buttered bread and a glass of fruit juice.

“Sera wanted to bring you cookies. Dorian wanted to bring you cookies and wine. I thought this was a better idea,” says Bull. He holds the plate out to Lavellan. “I want you to eat something, kadan.”

Outside, the sky is darkening as dusk turns into night, but a number of candles have been lit in the room to keep it bright. A fire is burning cheerfully in the fireplace. 

Lavellan sits up. At some point, Bull, presumably, covered him with a blanket, and Lavellan clutches it close, for comfort as much for warmth. His mouth dry and unpleasant, he takes a greedy drink of fruit juice, then starts in on a slice of bread. The bread is so freshly baked that it’s still soft and warm, and the butter is lightly melting into it.

Bull sits down next to him on the bed, and Lavellan looks over at him. He pauses in between mouthfuls of bread to say, “You left.” He doesn’t want to sound clingy or weak, but he’s glad he slept until Bull’s return; he wouldn’t have wanted to wake and find himself alone. 

“Krem was at your door the whole time,” Bull tells him. “Besides, I had to go kill Vallenberg.”

Lavellan slows chewing, then stops. He regards Bull with wide eyes, not sure whether it’s a joke or not. 

“What?”

“I wanted to stay with you as long as you needed me,” Bull explains. “But when you were good and out, I went to kill him. Unfortunately, by the time I got there, it was too late.” 

Swallowing his mouthful of bread suddenly seems like trying to choke down a stone. His hands clench to nervous fists around his blanket. 

“He’s got out?” Lavellan says. 

“No, no,” Bull reassures him quickly. “No, I mean Vallenberg was already dead when I got there. Seems he tripped and hit his head against the cell wall, couple of times.”

_He’s dead_ , thinks Lavellan. The situation can’t get any more resolved than that. _Lord Vallenberg’s dead._

“Oh,” he says. He’s taken aback by the enormity of the relief he feels. He thought Lord Vallenberg being in prison was enough, but it turns out Vallenberg being dead feels even better. At last, he thinks to ask, “Who did it?” 

“Don’t know.” Bull leans across him to help himself to a slice of bread, which he folds in half and devours in one gulp. He catches Lavellan’s gaze on him and grins. “Honestly, boss. I don’t know. Not a problem is it?”

“No,” Lavellan says at once. He thinks a moment longer, then he adds, “No, I guess it’s better this way. Passing judgment would have been… uncomfortable. And the less people know about it, the less damage the image of the Inquisitor takes.”

Bull regards him with an odd look on his face, somewhere between amusement and hurt. 

“You still don’t get it, do you?” he says. “It’s got fuck-all to do with the inquisitor’s image. It’s about you. You’re loved, and if people hurt you, they die.” 

“I know you’d have killed him for me-“ Lavellan starts somewhat awkwardly, but Bull is apparently nowhere near done. 

“I don’t know who killed him, because there’s a really long list of candidates,” says Bull. He settles back against the ornate head of the bedframe and starts ticking off on his fingers.

“Could easily have been Sera or Dorian or Cole, and I wouldn’t put it past Varric or Blackwall either. Wouldn’t be that surprised if it was Cullen or Cassandra trying to spare you having to deal with him. The only reason I’m pretty sure it’s not Josephine or Vivienne is that they’d have chosen a more roundabout method, one that doesn’t get blood on their own hands.” 

Bull presents it all so reasonably, so calmly, like it’s no big deal at all. He doesn’t realise that nobody in Lavellan’s clan ever spoke a word about revenge or justice, never even cursed Lord Vallenberg’s name for what he did. 

Bull helps himself to another slice of bread, which is finished off as quickly as the first. “I can tell you it wasn’t any of The Chargers, at least, because they’d all have known that Vallenberg was _mine_ to deal with.” He flashes Lavellan a grin that is both hot and dangerous. “I was going to tear him apart with my bare hands, you know, kadan. Lot of blood, some internal organs. Very messy. Very satisfying.”

“Thank you,” says Lavellan, his voice very small. 

Bull shakes his head. “No need to thank me. Bastard deserved what he got, and more.”

“No. I mean - You all believed me,” says Lavellan. “I didn’t know if you would. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I’m sorry.”

“Kadan,” Bull says sternly. Despite the hard tone of his voice, he cuddles Lavellan shamelessly, less reaver and more oversized nug. “No more thanks, no more apologies, no more guilt or shame or looking like you’re about to throw up. It’s over.” 

“Then I’ll say: I’m grateful,” Lavellan says, choosing his words carefully to avoid any of the sentiments Bull has forbidden, “to have such good friends.”

“Well, they’re not _that_ good,” says Bull. “Dorian’s still expecting you to play Wicked Grace tonight.”

~end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Thank you so so much to everyone who'd read and commented and kudos'd! I have so enjoyed writing such trashy fic, and it's been even lovelier to have had such a positive response. THANK YOU.


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